


Summer Rain

by ellia



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-21
Updated: 2010-02-21
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:03:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellia/pseuds/ellia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Trapped in his cell, waiting for Elle's next visit, Peter has to find a good memory to hold onto.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Summer Rain

Peter knows that Elle will be back soon, she never leaves him alone too long. He's not really sure who's playing who anymore, just knows he wants the games to stop. He manages to resist the urge to pace around his cell, he won't give her the satisfaction of seeing just how unnerved he is by her visits.

 

Between the pills and the Haitian they're stripping away all the bits and pieces that make him Peter, taking his sense of self along with his memories and powers. He hasn't actually swallowed one of their damn pills in three days, and he's terrified that Elle will somehow see the difference in him.

 

If he's going to fool her, make her believe that he enjoys the way she plays with him, then he's going to have to find something else to focus on. He keeps his thoughts of Claude buried deep inside his mind, hidden behind the strongest walls he can build. They, above all else, are the memories he won't allow them to take from him.

 

He needs them today, has to draw on those precious moments he had with Claude to get him through another session with Elle. Not their last meeting, when Claude had yelled at him, pleaded with him not to go through with this. He doesn't need to hear all those warnings again, especially not now that he knows Claude was right about the Company all along.

 

He can hear rain beating against the roof of the building, and that prompts a memory of a far better night. They'd been up on the roof, after another long day of Claude's increasingly bizarre training sessions. He'd been watching from the doorway as Claude had tended to his pigeons, marvelling at the gentle way he'd handled them. It was a side of Claude he hadn't seen before, a man at peace, without his usual masks.

 

When the rain had started he'd expected Claude to run for cover, instead he'd stepped out to the centre of the roof. Arms spread wide, head tilted back, eyes closed; he'd looked like a statue to some pagan god. When he'd stuck out his tongue to catch some of the tiny drops of water, it'd been one of the most erotic things Peter had ever seen, and he hadn't been able to stop himself from moaning at the sight.

 

Claude's eyes had snapped open then, and he'd stared at Peter for a moment or two, before holding out his hand in invitation. He hadn't stopped to think about it, had just walked out onto the roof, barely even noticing the rain. He'd stepped into Claude's arms like he belonged there, and nothing before or since has ever felt so right.

 

He remembers there'd been music, drifting up from the open windows of one of the apartments, something slow and sultry floating through the night air. Claude had pulled him even closer, chuckling against his neck, when Peter had groaned at the feel of their bodies pressed tight together.

 

Claude had kissed him then, their first kiss, and it's a memory he'll always savour. Passion tempered with a sweetness he'd never thought Claude capable of showing, they'd stayed up there until the rain stopped. Hours of gentle kisses, and soft touches, they'd swayed in the moonlight, moving to music only they could hear.

 

Elle's footsteps are reverberating down the hall, any second now the cell door will open, and he'll have to face her again. There'll be lightening bolts dancing across his skin, lips he despises pressed against his own. He'll moan when he's supposed to, say the things she expects to hear. He'll let her touch him, hurt him, treat him like he's nothing but her pet; because none of it matters. All she has is a shell, the real Peter isn't going to feel a thing.

 

He's on a roof top, held tight in the arms of the man he loves. There are soft lips pressed against his, rough beard scratching his cheeks, calloused fingers rubbing circles on his skin. He isn't trapped in a cell with a woman he hates; he's with Claude, and they're dancing in the soft summer rain.


End file.
